


Give Him a Name

by StrangerPurple



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bipolar Ian, Bottom Mickey Milkovich, Boys Town, Boystown, Drug Use, Gallavich, Homophobic Language, I know the Boys Town trope has probably been done to death already, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mickey being generally violent, POV Mickey, Recreational Drug Use, Top Ian Gallagher, mickey x ian - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-05-30 07:04:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6413800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrangerPurple/pseuds/StrangerPurple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mandy comes home, beaten and bloody over a drug-deal-gone-wrong, Mickey's determined to track down the guy who did it. He can't help it if he finds himself further down south in Boystown, distracted and propositioned by the redhead working the bar, and maybe letting off a little steam would be good for once. Maybe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Shameless, the characters, and all that shit. Not in any association with the network, etc, etc.

Mickey inhaled from the cigarette filter between his lips, tasting nicotine on his tongue, and held it all in until his lungs burned just slightest bit. He let out all the smoke in one harsh exhale, the blue-ish grey cloud making the neon lighting seem distant and far away and less threatening for all of about two seconds.   
  
And there it was, right as it stood before him. Electric violets and pinks, harsh reds and deep greens all flickered off wet pavement, and lit his eyes up like glass. The Fairy Tale, or some shit.

 

He usually never let himself wander off too far south on the Southside, especially not so far into the heart of Boystown. Not unless he wanted a quick, discreet fuck in a dark alley behind a dumpster, or to move a few grams of coke.

 

The day before, Mandy had stumbled in through the Milkovich house door, bloody and bruised, and weak on her feet. Some sort of drug deal gone wrong, thanks to Terry and the business.

 

The memory of her choking back tears and spitting up blood into their cracked bathroom sink made him a shred braver. She never cried, or at least she tried never to cry, and other than his father, Mandy was the strongest person he knew, even if he gave her shit. And probably the only person he actually loved. Anybody who laid a hand on her got a pistol-whipping, and were only lucky if their heads stayed attached to their miserable bodies.

 

“Fuck me.” He sighed, dropping his cigarette filter at his feet. Even just standing in front of such a proud display of sexuality made him uncomfortable. In his mind, he wasn’t proud. So how could so many be? He sated himself sexually, but that was all it was. Sexual release followed by shame and self-degradation. 

 

His bottom lip was nearly chewed raw, but he grit his teeth and squared his shoulders, hugging his winter coat tighter around himself as he made his way across the street, flipping a cab driver off when the grill of a cab nearly slammed into his shins.

 

The bouncers didn’t even care to check for ID Mickey noticed as he shoved his way through a gathering of rent boys waiting out front, and the aged, probably married men groping their ass cheeks, or slipping a discreet wad of bills into the waistband of tight spandex shorts. The young, fresh-faced ones brought in all the business, so what did the bouncers care? They made profit, without regard to the law, and that was typically a good summation of how things ran down in the Southside anyway. 

 

Regardless, it made Mickey’s life easier.

 

He schooled his expression when he got inside, the outside noise smothered by pulsing music and the smell of musk and expensive cologne. It was almost suffocating, perfectly debauched in every way, and Mickey was almost tempted to linger. Maybe trade a few joints for a hummer if anyone was willing, but in the end he knew he’d pussy out.    
  
It wasn’t why he was here, anyway. 

 

He shoved his way through throngs of older men, ignoring the few looks he got if he jostled someone enough to get them to look away from the dancers. It made him feel hot under his collar, and out of his element. Like he stuck out, even if he blended in with all the rest.

 

Standing still for a second, he took some time to look around, eyes moving from place to place, before landing on a guy perched near the back, clipboard and pencil in hand as he scribbled something down. He may not have been the guy Mickey was looking for, but he was good enough. He had a crop of dirty blonde hair, wire-framed glasses on his nose, and a slightly slimmer build. Meek enough that Mickey could make a good example of him.

 

Mickey tilted his head back a little, squaring his jaw, and wandered over to approach the man on his left, leaning up against the bar counter as he sized him up. 

 

“I’m looking for one of the managers here. Tall, blocky, dumber than a pile of shit. I’m told you’re familiar.” He murmured, eyebrows pulling together when the guy turned, giving him a look that read only as tired and uninterested.

 

“Depends on who’s asking.” The guy replied, pulling his glasses down his nose just a bit to narrow his eyes, giving Mickey a careful once-over.

 

Mickey licked his lips, blinking at him once, before rolling his eyes. “Well, since you watched the words come out of my fucking mouth, I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that I’m the one who’s asking.”

 

The guy’s mouth opened, somewhat shocked, and maybe slightly dumbfounded. “What’s he done now?”

 

“Beat on a girl.” Mickey answered, lifting his chin a little. “Didn’t pay a debt.”

 

The blonde scoffed, and shook his head, dropping his clipboard down on the counter with an audible clack, just barely heard over the song playing. “Look, I don’t get in the middle of his shit.” He murmured, halting for a second. “Go find yourself a nice boy to jack off on, and give it a rest. He beats on girls all the time. Beats on fags too, if you’re not careful.”

 

Mickey raised an eyebrow, anger flaring up in his chest. “I’m sorry.” He laughed, eyes flicking towards the ceiling. “You callin’ me a fag?” 

 

The manager’s lips pulled into a shit-eating smile, and he ran a hand through his hair. “Sweetie. You’re a fag, if ever I’ve seen one.”

 

Mickey smiled faintly, before throwing a fist towards the guy’s ribs, hitting him square in the stomach instead.

 

The manager’s eyes widened, before he let out a wheezing cough, doubling over the counter. “Jesus fuck.”

 

Mickey took the opportunity and buried a hand in the back of those blonde strands, slamming his head down against the hard surface. The sound of cartilage crunching was lost under the heavy thrum of bass, but Mickey could imagine some damage had been done when the manager pulled his head back, displaying a few trails of blood streaking down from his nostrils, and a wince etched in his expression. 

 

“Tell your buddy that Terry Milkovich will be in touch.” He said, giving the guy’s arm a squeeze before pushing away from the bar, ignoring the looks he got from other patrons who’d seen the altercation. A threat from Terry Milkovich was enough to make the average man shit his pants, which Mickey knew better than anyone.

 

While most kids were afraid of monsters under the bed growing up, Mickey had grown up scared of his dad.

 

He shoved his hands in his pockets, and licked his lips, pushing past a greying man in a stained blue button-up with a hand down the front of some bartender’s shorts. It’s almost shocking to see, and Mickey feels his face go hot, almost juvenile. 

 

“No one wants to see that shit.” He grumbled, eyebrows knit together as he glared straight ahead, narrowly side-stepping a guy carrying a tray of drinks. 

 

“No one wants to see what?” 

 

The question catches Mickey off guard, because he almost doesn’t hear it. He groans under his breath and turns, raising an eyebrow when his own blue eyes lock onto green ones, rimmed in kohl eyeliner and something a little hazy.

 

It’s the red hair that he sees next, a thick crop of it along the top of the guy’s head, with the sides shaved. It’s a lot like his own, he realizes. The lips are bitten and red, skin milky pale, and he’d almost have a baby face if it weren’t for the squared jawline and tall, muscular build.

 

“That.” Mickey answers, nodding towards the pair behind him, still fondling each other, and doing everything but exchanging handies for everyone to see.

 

The kid glances over Mickey’s shoulder, amusement growing over his lips, before a small chuckle is leaving them. “For someone disgusted by that sort of thing, you definitely came to the wrong place.”

 

“I’m not here for that.” Mickey deadpanned, voice flippant and defensive. “Here on business. Not to watch old dudes grind their saggy sacks against your underaged ass.”

 

The redhead chuckled again, head cocking over to one side. He was swaying to the music, like maybe he’d been in the middle of dancing and putting on a show before he’d decided to butt into Mickey’s space. “I’m not underage.”

 

“Right.” Mickey mumbled, stepping around him. “And I was born yesterday.”

 

He’s turning to walk away when something dark and fluffy blurs in front of him in less than a second, and settles around his neck, feathers tickling his skin.

 

Mickey glanced down, and pulled away, tugging at the boa that was loosely dangling off his shoulders. He turned around, glancing down at the redhead’s hand holding both ends together.

 

Mickey ducked out of it, and raised an eyebrow. “Really.” He deadpanned. 

 

“You’re in an awful hurry to leave.”

 

“Thanks, Sherlock. Wanna tell me something I’m not already aware of?”

 

The redhead laughs again, and this time it’s only annoying. “You look like you need to relax a little.”

 

“Look, man. You wanna buy a few lines of coke, a few spliffs, whatever, I’m your guy. If not, fuck off.” Mickey snapped, giving him the finger before staggering back a few paces.

 

The redhead eyed Mickey for a moment, long enough to make him squirm in his spot and frown, before he shrugged and tossed the boa around his own neck again. And he looked absolutely fucking ridiculous in his gold shorts and feather boa, but also ridiculously good. 

 

“A few spliffs. If you’ve got ‘em.” The redhead answered, head cocking to the side. “My brother’s dealer went dry.”

 

Mickey nodded, and folded his arms across his chest. “Gimme a twenty.”

 

The redhead raised an eyebrow. “Was hoping you’d let me have a little discount.”

 

“Oh, you were, were you?” Mickey asked, voice dry and laden with sarcasm. “Why?”

 

“Haven’t made a whole lot tonight.” The guy admitted, pulling his boa from around his neck to loop it around the back of Mickey’s again, nodding towards one of the lush chairs behind them. Chairs that were invariably old, and probably stained by various drinks or fluids. “I can provide a service for a service. Give you a lap dance, you give me a joint. Fair?”

 

Mickey glanced around them, eyeing the others warily. He knew that none of them were looking, or even cared what he did, but in places like this, he felt like everyone was watching, everyone was judging. Everyone would somehow tell his father, and force him to relive that childhood fear of being beaten to death with a tire iron. 

 

He sucked in a shaky breath, fingers instinctively reaching for a cigarette which he promptly lit up and held between his teeth. “Fine.” He mumbled on the exhale, watching smoke cloud the redhead’s face, making his features softer in the changing light. “You get two minutes.”

 

The dancer/bartender/rent boy laughed again--like that was apparently his go-to response for fucking everything--and guided Mickey down into a sitting position, crawling into his lap and straddling him. And Mickey hated how that alone was enough to get his cock stirring, sporting a semi within the first five seconds. He rolled his eyes, face hot.

 

“Any particular reason you’re so moody?” The redhead asked, sliding a hand down Mickey’s chest, Mickey’s eyes following the whole time when the guy started to grind down in his lap, ass brushing along the line of his cock through his jeans. It made Mickey squirm, and glance away, fingers digging into the material of the couch down by his sides. 

 

“Any particular reason why you’re so goddamn nosy?” Mickey asked, raising an eyebrow. “Or do I look like I’ve got an overabundance of money to shove down your pants?”

 

The guy raised an eyebrow right back, and shrugged, grabbing one of Mickey’s wrists, placing his hand on his ass. “You’re a Milkovich, right?” 

 

Mickey frowned, leaning back a little more to get a good look at his face. “How the fuck do you know that?”

 

The dancer shrugged, voice lowering into something gravelly and sweet. Probably a tactic he used to choke more money out of the more pliable customers. “You’re pretty well known down here, fag basher.” He murmured, eyes sizing Mickey up like he was about a foot tall. “Terry kind of made a name for you all. I’m guessing you’re one of his sons, or nephews, or something?”

 

Mickey’s mouth hung open, eyebrows crinkled together. “You can take your service and shove up your ass, man.” Mickey spat, pushing at the guy’s chest.

 

He startled back a little, but still remained in Mickey’s lap, expression carefully blank. “Didn’t mean to ruffle your feathers, babe.”

 

“Don’t call me babe.” He mumbled.

 

“Whatever.” The guy purred, sliding both hands down Mickey’s chest, before sliding his palm down between Mickey’s legs, putting an adequate amount of pressure on the outline of his dick. The unexpected contact sent a shiver trembling through his skin, making him feel cold, even if it was unbelievably hot and stuffy in here. “Just settle back. What’s your name, huh?”

 

Mickey raised an eyebrow.

 

“You can make something up if you want.” Red smiled, turning around in Mickey’s lap so his back was lined up with Mickey’s front. “Most guys do. Just gives me something to call you, other than ‘that one Milkovich guy.’”

 

Mickey shrugged, blinking when the guy leaned his head back, turning charcoal rimmed eyes on him. “Make something up. I don’t give a shit.” He mumbled, eyes fluttering shut for a moment when Ian ground down on him, gyrating and pulsating along with music.

 

The guy smiled, and leaned in. And Mickey saw it coming too, jerking back before the redhead’s lips could even get close to his. “Kiss me and I swear to god, you’ll lose your fucking teeth.”

 

A hand came up and secured itself on Mickey’s jaw, the action triggering the defense mechanism in Mickey, however before he could tell the dancer to get fucked, warm lips were sliding along his jaw, peppering small kisses along his skin. The action itself shocked him, but he felt reluctant to stop it for now, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. He could smell something sweet like cream on Ian’s breath, and sharp like expensive vodka.

 

The cigarette in his hand was burned down, almost to the filter, and Mickey had almost forgotten he’d had the damn thing in his hand at all until the redhead plucked it from his fingers. He watched him take a deep drag, turning his head to blow smoke directly into Mickey’s face. 

 

After a beat of silence, Mickey licked his lips, and opened his mouth to speak. “So what am I supposed to call you? Carrot Top?”

 

The redhead grinned, and stood from his lap, moving to straddle him again. “So you get to remain anonymous, huh?” He snorted, pushing a hand through Mickey’s hair. The action usually annoyed the shit out of him, and he clenched his jaw. “You can call me whatever you want. Regulars and coworkers call me Curtis. Family calls me Ian.”

 

“Well, Curtis-Ian. It’s been over two minutes. You want your joints or or not?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

 

Carrot Top/Curtis/Ian gave him a speculative look, before shrugging. “There’s a space out back. We can light up there.”

 

“Never said I was gonna keep you company.” 

 

Carrot Top/Curtis/Ian raised an eyebrow, before laughing, reaching down to tug one of Mickey’s wrists. “C’mon, man. I got you hard, and you’re not even bad to look at. A few hits off a joint, a few handjobs, call it a day, yeah?” One corner of Curtis/Ian’s mouth pulled up into the faintest of smiles. “Tell yourself it’s tension release. Whatever you need to do to make yourself numb to the fact that you get stiffies for dudes.”

 

“You’re a prick.” Mickey said, yanking his wrist from Curtis/Ian’s grip. “Take me to the back, I’ll give you your fucking joints, get me off, and then give me a five for being such an ass.”

 

“Yes, sir.” Curtis/Ian purred, completely unfazed by the tone of Mickey’s voice.

 

Mickey took a deep breath, eyes flickering up and down Ian’s body for a moment, however before he could look long enough, Ian was beckoning for him to follow, and he found himself doing exactly what the redhead wanted. They elbowed their way past gatherings of boys and hairy men, Mickey trailing behind to snap or grab at anyone who got a little too handsy with either of them. 

 

Still, there was that lingering feeling in the pit of his stomach that wanted to be touched and high as a kite. Held down by calloused fingers while he dragged his nails across broad, muscle-y shoulders. As much as he tried, girls never satisfied that part of him. And he hated himself for it.

 

He revolted himself. But in the moment, that need was more overwhelming than what he felt for himself. And sometimes he thought maybe that need stemmed from the fact that aggression and libido had replaced his need for intimacy, and since neither his aggression nor libido were addressed too often, he fucked around a lot and punched the shit out of anyone who tried labeling him. Guys, girls. Anyone who was willing.

 

The rush of the outside air caught him off guard, and prickled his skin with goosebumps, and he hesitated, catching sight of Ian’s long fingers holding the heavy door open for him for just a few seconds before disappearing. And Mickey followed, the music suddenly dying down into a dull thud when the door separated them from the inside of the club.

 

The back was exactly what Mickey had been suspecting. The narrow walkway between two crumbling buildings, two clubs lopsided and stuck right next to one another. They were narrowly hidden by a large dumpster, but not far off, even over the music, Mickey could hear people walking and passing by, talking or cackling loudly.

 

“Fag basher?”

 

Mickey blinked, and frowned, turning around to catch sight of Ian, raising an eyebrow. “The fuck you say?”

 

Ian shrugged, face shadowed where the light from one of the still working streetlamps couldn’t touch. And Mickey didn’t know how the guy wasn’t fucking freezing. 

 

“Nothing.” He murmured, leaning his hip up against the wall. 

 

“Do you, like...know me, or some shit? You stalking me?”

 

Ian raised an eyebrow, before shaking his head. “No, don’t really know you. I know Terry, though. Beat this guy Lance. Used to work here before Terry fractured his collarbone and shattered a few bones in his fingers.”

 

Mickey’s chest felt a little tight, and he glanced away, folding his arms over his chest. “What, you want an apology, or something?” He asked, mouth thinning into a tight line.

 

“No.” Ian shrugged, bottom lip sucked between his teeth for a second. “You asked, I explained. I’ve seen Terry enough. Comes down once a month to do what he did to Lance, but really he just does it to any unfortunate gay kid he can find. Only reason I recognize you is because you actually go as far as to walk into the clubs, and...browse, I guess. Even if you do deal out your fair share of beatings, you also take advantage of the situation. Snag the nearest guy, fuck ‘im, and leave, tail between your legs.”

 

“Back the fuck off me.” Mickey snapped, shoving Ian up against the wall by his bare shoulders. “I don’t care how much of a fucking baby face you have, you need to back the fuck off me, or I swear to god, I’ll-”

 

“What?” Ian asked, head tilted down to stare Mickey into a stupor, cutting in to his sentence. “You’ll do what, Milkovich fag basher? Beat the shit out of me? Make yourself feel more like a man?”

 

Mickey stared, fingers dug painfully hard into Ian’s arms. The redhead didn’t seem to take notice, or maybe he didn’t feel it. Sometimes they coked their dancers up so bad down here that they stumbled along like dazed zombies, but most of the time it was just to get them wired up, less likely to feel and more inclined to please. It made Mickey sick to his stomach, even if he was partly to blame, moving coke for Terry fucking Milkovich. 

 

But Ian didn’t seem dazed, or in a zombie-like state. He seemed strangely cogniscient, but lively all at once. His pupils weren’t overtly dilated, and his pulse seemed normal. The only thing Mickey did notice was the stench of a million different colognes and the occasional waft of alcohol.

 

“Or do you do it ‘cause you’re too much of a pussy to stand up to your dad?” Ian went on, unfazed. “Makes you feel like more of a man to punish guys like you who’re brave enough to actually be who they are, and are proud of it? Yeah, you’re a real tough guy.”

 

“/Fuck/ you.” Mickey spat, pushing at him again, but since Ian was already pressed against the wall, he didn’t go anywhere.

 

“No, fuck you.” He growled, and Mickey had only a split second to register the hands grabbing hold of his biceps, and shoving him against the opposite wall.

 

His back making contact with the brick wall caught him off guard, and knocked the air from his lungs a little, and he blinked wide-eyed at Ian. But the redhead was closing in on him, fingers hooking under Mickey’s chin and lifting his head a little. And Ian was kissing him, open-mouth and /hard/. So hard that Mickey wondered if it was possible to bruise lips like this, without fists. 

 

It wasn’t loving in the slightest, but more of a fight, Ian’s hand clamped tight around the back of his neck, while Mickey had a fistful of Ian’s hair, tugging whenever he felt so inclined. Stubble scratched his cheeks and chin, nosing roughly along his skin every time they desperately switched angles. Every brush of his tongue had his stomach swooping, and his blood rushing south to meet the desperate ache he felt. He was hard in his jeans, and panting, eyes shut tight as he registered the press of Ian’s hard-on against his upper thigh, and yeah. He needed this right now. Oddly cathartic and messed up as it was. 

 

Ian slid both hands down to Mickey’s hips, rough and uncareful as he turned Mickey around, pushing him up against the wall before going to yank Mickey’s jeans down his waist, and Mickey shivered, wrinkling his nose a little when the cold air made contact with his bare ass. He could hear Ian rustling behind him, and when he turned his head, it was only to see the long line of his cock, flushed pink at the tip, gold shorts pushed down his hips a couple of inches.

 

Mickey shivered, and licked his lips, involuntarily making a sound of approval when Ian closed up against him from behind, licking a few fingers before reaching down to get Mickey prepped. And normally, Mickey would’ve just said fuck it with the prepping. He had a high tolerance for pain, and even if the adjustment period took a couple minutes before it really started to feel good, he was kind of thankful for it. Ian wasn’t exactly small, and it’d been a while since Mickey had been on the receiving end.

 

He winced slightly as Ian’s fingers stretched him open, and tried hard to relax, although at this point, he didn’t really give a shit. Just wanted Ian to get it over with and start, cause he’d been wanting this for a while. Not with the Carrot Top necessarily, but Mickey wasn’t complaining.

 

He sucked in a breath when Ian carefully slipped his fingers out, hands splayed out flat against the brick wall as he waited, looking over his shoulder when Ian still didn’t do anything. And Ian was just kind of...staring at him when Mickey turned over his shoulder to get a good look. 

 

Mickey shifted and raised an eyebrow. “You gonna fuck me, or am I gonna have to do it myself?” He grumbled, taking heavy breaths. 

 

Ian smiled, a little devious as he did, before he shook his head. “No, I’m gonna fuck you. Just admiring the scars on your left ass cheek. Piss off an old boyfriend?”

 

Mickey snorted, and looked back to the wall. “I don’t do boyfriends. Shotgun blast caught me in the ass cheek. Are we done with the twenty questions?”

 

“Yep. Quite done.” Ian deadpanned, reaching for something tucked in the waistband of his shorts. Lube, or at least a small foil packet of it. 

 

“You carry that shit on you?” Mickey blinked, glancing up at him, swallowing as he watched Ian slick himself up, spreading the lube along every inch, before tossing the foil packet behind him. 

 

“Thought we were done with questions.” Ian grumbled, grabbing ahold of Mickey’s hip with one hand while he lined himself up with the other.

 

The feeling of his cock sliding along his entrance had his brain short-circuiting for a second, and Mickey actually shuddered, pushing back against him. And it was then that Ian bucked his hips forward, burying himself inside in one fluid glide.

 

Mickey winced, caught between the uncomfortable feeling of being filled and stretched so quickly, and the erotic sensation of it, especially when Ian just barely brushed along his prostate in the process.

 

“Fuck.” He breathed, forehead resting against the hard, cold brick. He heard Ian choke back a noise behind him, letting out long, deep breaths instead.

 

Mickey didn’t think this would last long at all with the pace they were going. 

 

He braced himself when Ian started to move, feeling him slide out a few inches before rocking back in, like he was testing it all out. Testing Mickey out. 

 

“Harder. Don’t be a pussy.” Mickey grunted, and was rewarded when Ian grabbed ahold of his waist and slammed into him, cock buried up to the hilt when their skin slapped together audibly. “Like that, yeah. Keep going.” 

 

And Ian kept it up, spurred on by something like annoyance or arousal, or a hybrid of both. Mickey’s whole body jostled while Ian drilled into him, toned thighs encasing Mickey’s. And Mickey was still hard and aching between his legs, and he dropped a hand down from the wall to circle his fingers around his cock, jerking himself in time with every one of Ian’s thrusts. It was only when Ian hit that sweet spot deep inside him that he actually groaned, panting and heaving as his whole body threatened to go weak, stomach swooping with warmth and arousal. 

 

“Right there.” He grumbled, refusing to actually moan. He wasn’t some needy bitch, but sometimes it was hard to be quiet. 

 

Ian’s hips pounded against his ass, the skin there probably a faint red as he stood there and took it. And he fucking loved it hard and unafraid. Ian seemed to perform well when he was aggravated. 

 

He only barely registered Ian’s forehead come to rest against the back of his neck, warmth breaths puffing out against his skin, because his head was swimming with his orgasm so close, keeping him on edge. 

 

The hand that came up to cover his was a different story. He blinked when warmth enveloped his left hand, and he looked over, Ian’s long, slender fingers covering a little bit of the “U-UP” tattooed on Mickey’s knuckles. And it was...weird. He wasn’t a fucking hand holder, especially not when he was fucking, but he figured maybe Ian had just reached up to find stability on the wall, and had accidentally caught Mickey’s hand under his. He ignored it, biting down hard on his bottom lip and squeezing his eyes shut when Ian’s next thrust had him wanting to let out a growl of moans of expletives. Let everyone walking by know that he was being fucked into a blissful oblivion that he wanted to melt in. Capture the feeling of being made to feel this good, no loving intimacy involved. 

 

“You better be close.” Ian mumbled from behind him, the words tracing his skin as they left Ian’s mouth, and Mickey could only nod breathless.

 

“Shut the fuck up, and get me there.” He grumbled, pushing back against him to meet that careful gyrate of his hips, loving the symmetry of their bodies fitting together in a way that made this so erotic and private. 

 

A dozen other people within a mile radius were probably all doing the same thing they were doing. Fucking and fighting, or sucking each other off in a way that didn’t feel shameful in the heat of the moment, but something that someone could regret later as they jerked themselves off to the memory. 

 

That was Mickey in a nutshell. Completely unashamed when caught up in it all, but regretful later. Even if this was better than any hit he ever took off a joint, or any girl he ever happened to get into bed and fuck like it was a chore rather than something that was supposed to be mutually satisfying.

 

And it was the peak right before the first hit of an orgasm that he loved the most. It made his stomach muscles clench in anticipation as the clarity and momentum of such a release built up to such a point that all he saw behind his eyelids was bright white and complete bliss.

 

He let out a choked noise when exactly that happened, muffling a groan behind biting his lip as he came, shooting his load in cloudy white streaks across the red brick, his skin burning and flush with warmth.

 

He was reeling, still jostling as Ian stood behind him, fucking him hard and heavy, and from what Mickey could tell, close to finishing as well. He stood and took it, eyes squeezed shut as he rode out the rest of his orgasm, stroking himself through it until he sucked in a breath when Ian snapped forward, coming with an audibly low, gravelly, sweet moan uttered for Mickey’s ears only. 

 

Feeling Ian spill inside him was almost enough to get him going again, but he stayed still, feeling the redhead practically go dead-weight against him, and press him tight against the wall, but before Mickey could actually test the theory of whether or not he could hold the tall, muscly redhead up, Ian was pulling out, moving away to lean his back against the opposite wall. 

 

There was at least a couple feet of space between them, but even that felt too close then, 

 

Mickey took a couple seconds to catch his breath, probably looking ridiculous with his jeans hiked low on his thighs, and his ass hanging out. And arguably the worst part of not using a condom was the feeling of some guy’s release slip out, and slide down the backs of his thighs. He wrinkled his nose, and reached down to pull his jeans up, adjusting himself to the best of his ability before turning around.

 

Ian had tugged his shorts up already, but he was panting just as hard, red lips and bitten, with that blissful ‘just fucked’ look written all over that chiseled face, and swimming in the deep green of his eyes. And Mickey probably looked much of the same, although he wasn’t sure if he wore ‘debauched’ quite as well as Ian did. 

 

In fact, Mickey was pretty sure he never got the ‘debauched’, just-fucked look. The only thing that set in after these kinds of ventures was a deep sense of dread, reaffirming what he’d always known to be true about himself. His eyes were slightly wide, rimmed with a touch of worry that made the blue in his eyes look pitiful rather than piercing. He licked his lips, tasting Ian and liquor there, and he swallowed, filthy regret settling somewhere in the pit of his stomach.

 

He took a deep breath, and watched his exhale fog up the air for a second. 

 

“Aren’t you cold?” Mickey asked, eyeing Ian’s virtually unclothed figure.

 

Ian shrugged, before shaking his head. “Nah. This is nothing.” He mumbled, glancing out towards the small piles of grimy slush and melting snow. 

 

And Mickey could only frown a little, before rolling his eyes. “Whatever. Here.” He mumbled, holding out his closed fist, palm down.

 

Ian eyed him for a quick, confused second, before reaching out to accept whatever Mickey was handing him.

 

Mickey uncurled his fingers and let the few artfully rolled joints fall into Ian’s palm, and pulled back, crossing his arms over his chest. 

 

Ian perked up at the offering, and slid one behind his ear, while propping another between his teeth. “Thanks.”

 

“Whatever.” Mickey shrugged him off, and swallowed thickly, sure he looked guilty as fuck. Ian looked like he didn’t have a care in the world. “I gotta go.”

 

Ian raised an eyebrow, and gave him a quick once-over before shrugging. “Thanks for keeping me company.”

 

Mickey shook the comment off, ignoring it as he zipped his winter coat up, and backed away. “Yeah, man. Whatever.” He mumbled, licking his lips, trying to get the taste of him off. 

 

He got about three steps down the alley when he heard Ian’s voice again.

 

“Quick question, and be honest.” 

 

Mickey glared, and turned his head over his shoulder to look at him again. “Make it quick, I have somewhere I need to be.”

 

“Okay.” Ian shrugged, “Two questions actually. One, you gotta light?” He asked, eyebrows raised expectantly. 

 

Mickey rolled his eyes, and felt around his pockets before pulling out one of those cheap, disposable lighters, and tossed it in Ian’s direction. 

 

A pale arm shot out to catch it, the lighter clasped tight in Ian’s hand when he pulled it out of the air and lit up. The strong scent of cannabis filled his nostrils in a matter of seconds. “Second question?”

 

Ian nodded, quiet for a second as he held smoke in his lungs, letting it out all at once. “Would you have even glanced my way if I hadn’t come up to you first?”

 

Mickey’s eyebrows drew together a little, and he blinked, wondering where in the fuck that came from. “Does it matter?” He asked.

 

Ian shrugged. “Guess not. Just curious.”

 

Mickey didn’t need to think about it, because he knew it was true. He licked his lips, and gave Ian a blank look. “No.” he mumbled. “Probably wouldn’t have.”

 

He watched a smile pull at Ian’s lips, formulating slowly like he was processing the answer. “Yeah, I guess I can see that now.” He murmured, head inclining forward a few inches so a few strands of longer red hair fell over his forehead. “Have a nice night, Milkovich boy.”

  
Mickey frowned, lips slightly parted as he studied that expression, all amusement and hidden laughter, but overall, smugness. He clenched his jaw, and turned without a second word, winding his way out of the alley.  


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey gets up to some shit.

“Jesus, Mickey. I thought I looked bad.” 

 

Mickey gritted his jaw, and winced at the pain it sent flaring through his teeth. He flipped Mandy the finger, and collapsed down on their couch after dropping his shit by the door.

 

Mandy was looking a little better, three days after the beating. Her lip was still cut and bruised, but it was at least healing, and didn’t hurt like a bitch when she tried to eat or drink. There was a shadow of a bruise under her right eye, and her cheek bone was still swollen, but other than that, she was looking better. Better than her teeth slick with blood while she spit up over their sink, one eye almost completely swollen shut.

 

The memory had anger flaring up somewhere in the pit of Mickey’s stomach, and that natural instinct to hurt someone had his fingers itching for a cigarette. 

 

Normally he’d blame Terry for his fucked behavior, but maybe he was too old for that excuse now. Maybe he was just born violent, and unequipped to lay a hand on someone that wasn’t with the intention of causing harm.

 

Didn’t matter.

 

“Don’t worry about it.” He mumbled, sniffing, although one nostril was clogged with drying blood. He’d picked a fight with the wrong guy this time. Some jack off further north that had offered to give Mickey a hummer, or some shit. When Mickey went to deliver a punch aimed at his ribs, he got an ass kicking that he hadn’t been anticipating. He could still taste copper from having accidentally bitten his tongue, and the split lip he’d got to match Mandy’s. “Aren’t you supposed to be working?”

 

“Manager sent me home.” Mandy explained, voice listless and muted. It deviated from her normal attitude and gruff demeanor. “Didn’t want one of their waitresses to serve tables, looking like this.” She mumbled. 

 

Mickey gave her a quick glance, before resuming his very important task of staring at the ceiling. “You’ve looked better. The black eye doesn’t exactly make people wanna eat.” He said, pulling a cigarette loose from his back pocket. 

 

“Fuck you.” Mandy snapped, eyes narrowed and glared. 

  
There was a beat of silence where Mandy just stood there, chest heaving while the anger and feeling caught up, and Mickey just laid there, knowing he’d crossed some kind of line with her. 

 

And really, he wasn’t surprised. It was a Milkovich trait to keep every sliver of feeling  swallowed down, until it all boiled out into one moment of reckless abandon and anger. And in Terry’s case, it usually ended with him violating some facet of his parole and getting himself thrown back in the slammer.

 

Mandy had the unfortunate disadvantage of being the only daughter in a long stretch of Milkovich boys. That meant that instead of being pistol whipped by their father, like the boys were so often threatened with or disciplined with, Mandy had to deal with Terry’s drunken ignorance. Mistaking Mandy for their mother in a state of intoxication, and using her for things that made Mickey nauseous even thinking about. And when her emotions finally bubbled up and overwhelmed her, just about anything could set her off

 

It made Mickey fucking homicidal, and worst of all, it made him feel weak because he was powerless to do anything. Or that’s what he told himself. He was one of the shortest and arguably one of the weakest in his family. Not physically, but his resolve was weak. Weak because he fucked girls like it was a chore, weak because he let himself get dragged off and fucked by guys, weak because he fucking loved it and hated himself at the same time, and weak because Terry still scared him shitless. He could beat the shit out of any sorry fucker that happened to be in just the wrong place at the wrong time in the heat of the moment, but Mickey still couldn’t face the man that beat him into submission and silence, and kept him in line through fear. And that meant he couldn’t even protect Mandy the way he wanted to.

 

A door somewhere in the house slammed, and Mickey blinked, looking over the back of the couch to see that Mandy had stormed off, bedroom door shut. Pissed at him for being such a prick, which. Yeah. He really was. 

 

Mickey shut his eyes tight, and fell back against the worn cushions, scrubbing the heels of his palms over his eyes. He was Southside trash in every sense of the word; in stark definition. 

 

And a complete pussy.

 

He got up after a labored second, and wandered over to Mandy’s bedroom on the far end of their shitty little establishment, and didn’t bother knocking as he pushed his way in. 

 

Mandy was laying face down on the unmade bedspread, red beanie over her head and headphones in as she flipped through a magazine, although her eyes were staring off at the wall instead.

 

Mickey nudged her shoulder, anticipating the glare she got when she looked over her shoulder at him, hostility creeping up around the edges. 

 

She tugged the left earphone out, eyebrows crinkling together. “Yeah?”

 

Mickey shrugged, and sat down on the bed next to her, crossing his arms over his chest. “Nothing.” He mumbled. It was close enough to an apology in their language, as actions spoke louder than their words typically did. “Found out where the fucker works.”

 

“Which one?” Mandy asked, one eyebrow lifting up curiously. “There’s an abundance of fuckers in our life. You’ve gotta be more specific, assface.”

 

“The one who fucked your face up.” Mickey clarified, swallowing thickly. “Some ass digger that works down in Boystown. He’s gotta reputation for pimping young guys off to older Northside cunts.”

 

“Boystown?” Mandy snorted, one corner of her mouth pulling into a smirk. “How’d you go about figuring all that out.”

 

Mickey felt his face flood with heat, although his pale complexion somehow didn’t allow for much blush to show through. It didn’t make much sense. “I asked around. Not that fucking hard.”

 

Mandy looked far too amused for his own comfort, and he squirmed, expression scrunching up defensively. 

 

“The fuck’s that look for?”

 

“Did you, like,” Mandy paused, tugging her other earphone out. “You went down there. Boystown.” She laughed. “And how was your adventure in gay wonderland, huh?”

 

“Fuck off, you want me to kill this guy for you, or not?” Mickey raised an eyebrow, mouth drawing into a tight line. 

 

Mandy quirked another smile, before shaking her head. “If you’re willing to take a trip down to Boystown for me, then you really must care.”

 

“If someone beats on my sister, then yeah, I fucking care. No one does that shit and gets away with it.”

 

“I’m touched. Really.” She teased, reaching up to pinch Mickey’s cheek.

 

He batted her hand away. “Shut the fuck up. I’m leaving now.” He murmured, standing from the bed. 

 

“Wait, no. C’mon. I gotta hear about this. I’ve only been down there once.” 

 

Mickey stopped in his tracks, and turned his head. “How the fuck did you wind up down there? You’re not exactly working with the right equipment. I can’t imagine that tits get you very far down there.”

 

Mandy shrugged. “Pretended to date this guy who turned out to be gay, and he took me out to grab a drink and meet some of his friends. It’s not like they check for ID.” She snorted, flipping idly through the magazine laid in front of her. “And it was nice to actually go to a club where guys didn’t try to molest me, or rub one out on me, or some shit. But that’s not important. Did you get a date?”

 

Mickey blinked at the abundance of information shot at him, and he stumbled over a few words, before scoffing. “Okay, we’re gonna go back to that later. And no, I didn’t get a fucking date. I don’t fucking do dates, and I don’t fucking do guys either.”

 

Mandy rolled her eyes, picking at her nose ring idly. “I’m fucking with you. Relax, asshole. Go stick it in Angie again. Make yourself feel all manly, and shit.” She snorted.

 

Mickey flipped her off over his shoulder as he left.

 

He was practically chafing from the amount of times he’d fucked Angie Zhago over just the span of a few days, even though he’d used rubbers each time. Angie Zhago, the various passing women who happened to stop by the Alibi Room, anyone who was fucking willing and female.

 

Just to scrub that memory of red hair and goofy fucking eyeliner. 

 

He gritted his teeth, and grabbed a Glock from the coffee table, amongst the various other firearms that occupied the table top, and tucked it in the waistband of his jeans. His coat hung low enough on his frame that it was easily concealable, despite the fact that people carried guns openly and proudly, illegal or not.

 

Mickey wasn’t about to be caught breaking his parole. Not again. It was just easier in the long run.

 

“Who you killin’?” 

 

Mickey glanced up, spotting Iggy in the kitchen, the back door ajar. There was dirty snow tracked in over the linoleum, but it would just add to the layer of grime already there. 

 

“Rapist.” Mickey answered, holding a cigarette between his teeth as he lit up.

 

“Want some help?” Iggy asked, his voice listless and slow. Almost like the honey-slow, white-trash drawl that they all sported to some extent. “Could grab the other boys. Grab some power tools, and shit.”

 

“No. This is a solo job.” Mickey mumbled, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “And no fucking way. I hate rapists as much as you, but I’m not willing to spend life in the joint if we accidentally leave blood behind for the forensics specialists to find.”

 

“And…a gun’s not gonna leave behind blood?”

 

Mickey exhaled sharply, and narrowed his eyes. “I’m not gonna shoot him, assface. Gonna hold him at gunpoint, get him alone, and pistol whip the shit out of him. Should shut the fucker up for good.”

 

He was a better liar than the whole damn litter of them, and it came in handy.

 

“Look, man. We got your back. We’re with you in this.”

 

“Next time, okay?” Mickey murmured between puffs of his cigarette. “Need someone here with Mandy, anyway. At least until the fucker’s dealt with.”

 

Iggy stood, the chair legs scraping against the floor. “He raped Mandy?”

 

“No.” Mickey answered immediately. “And we’re gonna make sure he never does, right? Stay here. I’m gonna take care of this.” He mumbled.

 

He patted himself down, making sure he had his wallet, gun, and lighter on him before letting himself out of the house, a beer can on their front porch crunching under his foot.

 

Chicago in the winter probably his favorite.

 

A layer of snow made their white-trash neighborhood look a little less white-trash. Maybe the snow hid the layers of bullshit, used hypodermic needles, and homeless junkies. Who the fuck knew.

 

All Mickey knew was that he was gonna make sure the job got done, freezing his ass off in the snow if it came down to it.

  
  


****************************

 

Mickey heard and felt the wet snap of metal against skin and bone, and watched as dark red stained the snow at his feet in a wet splatter.

 

The man groaned again, holding a hand up to his face after Mickey had delivered the third blow. 

 

“A guy with a fucking ponytail can’t even take a guy who didn’t graduate high school.” Mickey wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Too much of a fucking pussy.”

 

“Fuck you.” The guy spat, bloody saliva flying out with his outburst. “The bitch was asking for it. Didn’t even give me a full five ounces, which I paid for.”

 

Mickey holstered his gun, and clenched his hand into a fist, threw a punch that connected with the guy’s nose. “You didn’t, actually. You only paid for an ounce and a half, you pathetic fuck.”

 

“Your shit sucks anyway. I can snort purer coke from the ass cheeks of one of those prissy twinks selling themselves on the street corner.” The bouncer smiled, teeth stained slightly red. “Tell the slut Milkovich girl that I’ll be paying her another visit if I don’t get my five ounces. I’d hate to lose a worthwhile dealer because someone slipped an anonymous tip to the cops. And from the way you carry yourself, I doubt incriminating evidence would be hard to find at whatever little establishment you hole yourself up in.”

 

Mickey kicked the toe of his shoe up into the guy’s groin, watching him collapse onto the ground, greasy ponytail all in disarray. A fucking ponytail, for fuck’s sake.

 

It was the same dank alley that Mickey had gotten off in with at least a dozen different guys. As well as the ginger, Ian. 

 

But he had a feeling that this would be the last time he’d be enjoying the juvenile, crooked gap between the two clubs. 

 

He licked his lips, and reached down, grabbing the guy by the collar to pull him up to his feet, pushing him up against the brick. 

 

“I don’t run the business, asshole.” He breathed, sizing him up. He was tall and brawny, but surprisingly weak on his feet. He crumpled like a piece of paper. “But you’ll be hearing from my father, Terry. I think he’s paid you a visit once or twice.”

 

The guy blinked, his narrowed, beady eyes widening slightly as Mickey’s comment sunk in. “You’re the other Milkovich son?”

 

“Yep.” Mickey put on a clipped smile. “Think you’ve met my brothers too, judging by the fact that you called me the other Milkovich son. See, if I’d actually paid attention the three years I actually went to high school, I probably would’ve learned an abstinence only sex ed course. Trouble is, is that people down here don’t seem to know when to stop having kids, and no one wants to give up sex, right? Plus side, we keep the population alive and well. Downside is, is that if you piss off just the wrong person, you piss off about fifty other assholes just within in his gene pool.” He added. “You touch my sister again, or you stiff us on what you owe, I will come back with the whole family. And maybe a dozen other guys with the urge to beat on an ass digger who rents coked-out twinks to some of our biggest buyers. You even get within fifty feet of my sister again, and I’ll personally unload a loaded barrel directly in your ugly fucking face.”

 

The guy shifted, and pushed out of Mickey’s grip, sweat pooling along the wrinkles formed along his forehead. Looked sickly, or maybe just a little too sloshed. 

 

“We have an understanding?” Mickey asked, smiling pleasantly when the guy nodded, and smoothed his hands down his ruffled button-up. “Good. Say you’re sick and go home. I don’t wanna see your face anywhere near here tonight.”

 

The guy visibly swallowed, and he turned his nose up, scrambling away from Mickey as fast as fast as his legs would take him. Especially with the slight limp he was sporting now. Part of Mickey hoped that the guy would’ve pissed himself too, just for that extra bit of satisfaction. 

 

Mickey watched him for a second, before snorting. He felt shaky on his feet, and his fists stung, muscles wound tight, but that shit always came after a fight. Pent up adrenaline, ready to hit or fuck or run a couple miles. He felt some semblance of clarity and serenity that’d be gone in five minutes or less, but it was something close to peace, fleeting as it was.

 

He’d come and done what he needed to do, and hopefully avoided any kind of blowback in the future. But the Milkoviches weren’t especially known for thinking long-term, and he’d take whatever came at him next.

 

He grabbed ahold of the door handle, and gave it a tug, listening to the hinges groan as he stepped inside. And the music was just enough to bring him back to his senses, but it was jarring all the same.

 

Mickey knew he could’ve taken the direct way out. Loop out of the alley, and catch the L home, but maybe it was better to leave a different way than the guy he’d just kicked the shit out of. 

 

But he really knew why he’d come in through the club. Even if admitting it to himself was nauseating all on its own. 

 

He stood up on the balls of his feet for a moment, glancing over clusters of guys, sipping colorful drinks at the bar, or crowding around one of the dancers on the platform. He looked for every pair of gold spandex shorts he could find, and basically anyone hardly dressed, or with a ridiculous amount of eyeliner. Problem was, was that that could literally describe over half the people clouding up his vision.

 

The red hair could’ve been spotted anywhere, Mickey knew. It made Ian stick out like a sore thumb, and it was the first thing that Mickey had really paid attention to when they’d first met.

 

And it wasn’t that Mickey was particularly picky. He wasn’t. He’d fuck anyone that was reasonably close to his age, willing, and preferably someone willing to top. And he was sure any one of these assholes could fill that void. 

 

Ian had been a good fuck, though. Quick, messy, chaotic, and so fucking hot. Why take a gamble on someone else when Mickey knew Ian could satisfy what he needed from him right then? 

 

His bottom lip was caught between his teeth, biting down a little harder than necessary. He wasn’t nervous. Just anxious. Mainly to get this all over with, and maybe just get out of there and get home. Jerk himself off. He had two functioning hands, for fucks sake. And plenty of material stored away in his memory to get off on.

 

Even just walking through the establishment, some queer-o bar called the White Swallow of all fucking places, had him sick to his stomach. Sick with anxiety, anger, fear, all of the above. The fight-or-flight-but-mostly-fight mechanism was kickstarting in the back of his mind, shooting that unbelievable urge to hide away or run under his skin, and Mickey was never afraid. 

 

Except that he was. And every part of him wanted to reject the notion that he could submit to something weak like fear. Dudes jacking each other off, and Mickey acting like that was somehow the proverbial embodiment of the fucking boogeyman, or some shit.

 

It was just sex. What was there really to be scared of?

 

He swallowed, keeping his eyes downcast as he pushed his way through to the front, thickets of guys getting more and more cluttered, like it was all some cosmic ploy to con Mickey into staying. Make it as hard as possible for him to leave.

 

The bouncer on duty was a big guy, heavyset, with a crop of sparse hairs on his chin, and he eyed Mickey up and down from his peripheral when Mickey shoved his way outside, nearly hitting the guy with the door. Mickey wasn’t paying attention. He needed breathing room.

 

The cold air brought him back to reality, and he audibly laughed, scrubbing a hand over his face as he glanced around. Watching the people leaving in their cars, either huddled up in the back of a taxi, or in flashy rides that only a certain clientele demographic could afford was almost surreal. They were bare and right out there for people to see, like this sector of Chicago was completely unashamed of what went on after dark.

 

So different from where he came from, even if the stretch between the Milkovich house and Boystown was only an L ride away. The space of a few minutes gave way to entirely different worlds in the same shitty edge of their state. 

 

He licked his lips, chapped as they were, curling and uncurling his fingers. His knuckles still ached from the beating he’d delivered, but it was a good ache. Made him feel a little secure anyway, like that part of himself wasn’t a lie at least. He was the Milkovich boy always picking fights and hitting first.

 

He’d only just gathered himself up enough to start heading down the block when the voice that buzzed through his head had him semi-halting in his tracks, one part of his brain telling him to keep going and just fucking forget about the whole thing.

 

“You got any party favors back at your place?”

 

Mickey turned around, and squinted through the individuals surrounding him like a cloud. The voice was slightly distant, but not completely buried under the dozens of other voices.

 

“Got anything you want.” A voice answered, gruffer and aged from what Mickey could tell.

 

He moved closer, stopping just a couple feet short of a fire hydrant so that he could see just enough.

 

Ian was in all black tonight. Sleek, sheer black top and shorts that looked like they’d maybe been pants at one point until someone took scissors to the fabric. His hair was styled back though, immaculate, and coppery dark, loosely shaved along the sides. And he still wasn’t wearing a fucking jacket.

 

He was hot, sure, but he’d catch pneumonia and fucking die if he didn’t at least bring a fucking cardigan. And Mickey definitely wanted to squeeze some time in with this guy before the freezing to death ensued. 

 

“I’m not allowed to turn tricks, you know.” Ian spoke, arms squared by his side, but there was something loose in his stance, like he was maybe too calm. On something, most likely. And the balding guy at his side was backed up against the sleek window of a Porsche, sliding his hands down the curvature of Ian’s spine until he was gripping firmly at his ass, tugging him close.

 

“You don’t have to.” The client purred, leaning up on his tiptoes--cause Ian was taller-- and from that distance, the light from the finicky streetlamp only barely illuminated the moisture of a tongue sliding down Ian’s ear lobe, before a pair of bright white teeth followed, nibbling playfully at the cartilage. “No money. Just as long as you get those lips around me later.”

 

Mickey blinked, and held back, feeling both disgust and something...possessive flare up and blind his senses. He wasn’t possessive of Ian, no. Just possessive of the fact that he was the one that needed a quick fuck. And he wasn’t the creepy fucking asshole preying on some kid.   


He side-stepped a couple leaned up against the lamp post, and approached the two of them, grabbing the older guy by the collar of his shirt to muscle him away. He heard an audible gasp, but was satisfied when there was at least a few feet of space between them.

 

“Touch him like that again, and I’ll call the fucking cops.” He spat, pushing him away by the shoulder.

 

The man blinked, clearly a little disgruntled from having been pulled away from the dry-humping and whatever the fuck he’d been trying to do to Ian’s ear. “Were you the one that bought me a drink earlier?”

 

“Milkovich boy?” 

 

Mickey chose to ignore the first question, and turned when Ian addressed him, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t look so fucking mopey, I’m doing you a favor. I-...jesus.” He grumbled. “He was just-”

 

Ian had grabbed Mickey by the arm then, and tugged him over to the side, and any words that Mickey had thought up left his lips and became air instead.

 

“What the fuck was that?” Ian snapped, kohl rimmed eyes narrowing slightly. His head was inclined down a little, like he was used to slouching down for everyone that was shorter, Mickey included. “Cause you’re kinda fucking it up for me right now; did you need something?”

 

“Oh, right. I’m the asshole for stopping the grandpa from jizzing down your leg.” Mickey mumbled, smacking Ian’s hand away from where it still gripped his bicep. 

 

Even just little bits of contact had his skin warming as if by electricity, and maybe it was just the strong urge to see Ian fight back, and want to touch him. Mickey also kind of wanted that raw urge to fuck that he’d seen in Ian the other night.

 

Ian sighed, green eyes falling shut for a moment. His lips were stained red, and Mickey wanted to bite them, and feel those lips leave bruises on every inch of pale and tattooed skin.

 

“Look. Milkovich.” Ian said finally, eyelashes revealing dark green when they opened again. “Go home. This is none of your fucking business, okay?”

 

“What, you get off on sucking old man balls?” Mickey snorted, “C’mon. Let’s get outta here. I’ll pay you and shit.”

 

“I don’t turn tricks.”

 

“Yeah, I heard you the first time, Red Riding Hood.” Mickey mumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. “Fine, I won’t pay you. Let’s just...I dunno. Have a quick couple of rounds, call it a night.”

 

Ian’s stance turned defensive, and he blinked, taking a step back. “Milkovich.” He snapped. “Go. Home.”

 

Mickey’s eyes searched Ian’s face for a second, and he felt his face warm up, despite the chill in the air. “Why the fuck would I do that?” He asked. The question wasn’t entirely out of place. With Terry out of prison for what must’ve been a record amount of time for him, Mickey had every reason to not want to go home.

 

“Look at you.” Ian snorted, eyes sweeping down Mickey’s frame once. “You’re clearly outta your fucking element, man. No offense. We had fun, and all, as much fun as one can have fucking next to a couple dumpsters. But you look lost. Go on back home.”    
  


Mickey raised an eyebrow. “What, you think you know me cause you stuck your fucking dick in me once?”

 

“No, but I know you shouldn’t be down here.” Ian said, reaching out to place a hand on Mickey’s chest, but his expression was a little colder than the touch. “Please go home, Milkovich.”

 

“It’s /Mickey/” He snapped, swatting Ian’s hand away from him, even if he wanted it there. Basically just to feel a little bit of contact. “And c’mon, you’re actually fucking telling me that you’d rather have an eighty year old ram his dick down your throat, before his heart gives out?”

 

“Like the mouse?” Ian’s eyebrows raised, the current situation momentarily forgotten.

 

Mickey blinked. “What?”

 

“Your name.” Ian reiterated. “Mickey. Like the mouse. Mickey Mouse.”

 

Mickey paused for a moment, reconsidering every life choice and decision he’d ever come to in his entire life. Including sleeping with this fucking moron. “Right. Because hearing that never gets old.” he mumbled, rolling his eyes. 

 

Ian looked fondly amused for a second, rimmed eyes trained on Mickey’s face for a beat of silence. “Your parents really just didn’t even give you a chance, did they?” He mused.

 

Mickey opened his mouth, before closing it, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. With his only parent being Terry Milkovich, Mickey was pretty fucked, yeah. He didn’t need it pointed out. “Just fucking answer me. Like...I’m just asking for a quickie, and then you can blow whoever the fuck you want.”

 

“That all you think I’m good for?” Ian asked, one eyebrow raised, soft expression gone. “A quick fuck, and a warm mouth for whoever wants a turn next?”

 

“No, shit. You know that’s not what I meant. Don’t be a bitch about it, please.” Mickey sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face.

 

Ian made a derisive noise at the back of his throat, and when Mickey looked at him again, he was looking away, down at the pavement. His eyes were a little clearer than they’d looked before. Maybe Ian was coming down from something still. 

 

“No.” Ian mumbled finally. “It’s not always fun to have to fool around with older guys. But sometimes they’re gentler than the young, confused ones that stumble in on a bad day. And they buy me shit sometimes. Call me selfish, but yeah, I can be bribed.”

 

Mickey didn’t know what to call the thing he was feeling. Bitter, disappointed, rejected. Usually when he asked for a quick thing, people were quick to accept. Not because Mickey was especially appealing, but because almost no one living down in the Southside saved sex as some taboo, special thing. It was just something that people did, be it as a hobby, or just a way to pass the time, since no one down there lived especially exciting or worthwhile lives.

 

And maybe it was because Ian was guy, or maybe it was because he voluntarily fucked geriatrics, but this rejection felt bigger than that. Like a proverbial ‘fuck you’ to Mickey in particular. 

 

“So, that’s that?” Mickey asked. “I get to stand here, looking and begging like some bitch, and get to go off, clear conscious?”

 

“What do you want me to say?” Ian asked, eyebrows knitting together. “That I like you? That I want to be with you? You think you’re the first guy to come down here, sleep with some twink they meet working a bar, and then go batshit crazy, trying to fucking woo them? It’s pathetic.”

 

Mickey planted both hands on Ian’s chest and pushed without regard for his safety. “Fuck you.” He spat, pushing at him again. Ian didn’t go down like he expected him to, but instead stumbled back a few steps, expression carefully blank. “Seriously, fuck you. You’re just as trashy and low-down as I am, so don’t fucking act like you’re on a fucking pedestal. Yeah, I might not be rich, or as...fucking aged as you like, but you sleep around for shit, and you shake your ass at strangers, and you let yourself get fucking wasted and felt up. Don’t act like you’re better. Don’t-”

 

His head suddenly whipped to the side from the force of a punch, and he staggered back a couple steps, eyes wide with shock as he gripped his jaw. He could taste a slow, steady flow of blood from where his teeth had bitten through his cheek, and he blinked, tipping his chin up to look at Ian. Ian’s hands were balled into fists, chest rising and falling with every rapid breath, and even though he was trying to keep his expression clear, there was a tightness to it that told Mickey he’d struck just the wrong nerve.

 

Still, he was never one to back down from a fight, especially not one that he didn’t start. 

 

He sniffed, squared his shoulders, and tensed when he threw the punch, making sure it connected with the redhead’s freckled nose. Ian staggered backwards, hands instantly coming up to cover his face as a small trickle of blood bloomed from both nostrils.

 

By then, people around them had already turned to watch, mumbling amongst themselves, while some fished through their pockets for their phones.

 

“Fuck.” Mickey breathed, suddenly wound up to throw another punch, or even run just for the sake of running. 

 

Even buzzing with this feeling, he’d not forgotten Ian was still there. Especially not when a hand buried itself in the back of his hair, and gave a violent tug that Mickey was helpless to follow, groaning quietly when he was shoved up against the brick wall. A fist connected hard with his ribs a second later, followed by a sharp jab with the edge of Ian’s hand to where his kidneys were. And that fucking hurt all on its own. Wheezing a little, he sucked in a deep breath through his teeth, and spat blood.

 

He thrashed, and managed to get himself turned around, trapped between Ian and the wall. He threw his elbow out, jabbing it into the pit of Ian’s stomach, and relishing in the noise it elicited, the redhead doubled over for a couple moments. 

 

The back of his head smacked against the brick when Ian finally gathered himself enough to retaliate, grabbing him by the throat and pushing with a staggering amount of force. His head felt like it was rattling, and it felt like his teeth were trying to evacuate from his face, and he blinked, trying to get ahold of himself and get rid of the black spots hindering his vision.

 

They were so focused on hurting one another, and the pounding in Mickey’s head had intensified to a dull thud that he almost missed the high-pitched whir of sirens in the distance.

 

“Shit.” He blinked, craning his head to look over Ian’s shoulders. “Shit, seriously stop. We gotta go.” He rasped, pushing at Ian’s chest.

 

Ian eyed him for a moment, panting and bleeding, before the sound of sirens got closer. “Someone called the cops?” He blinked, eyebrows drawing together a little.

 

“Apparently. Thanks to you, dumbass.” He mumbled, pushing away from the wall and away from Ian. “This was real fun, thanks.” He added, turning away to spit out a mouthful of bloody spit, and wrinkled his nose. “We’ll have to do it again.” He snorted, sarcasm bracketing his voice as he turned and broke into a sprint.

 

Despite the chill in the air, with it being the middle of winter in Chicago, Mickey was sweating by the time he got down the block, and in mid-sprint, he peeled his jacket off, clutching it in one hand. 

 

The sirens were getting closer, until he made a beeline down an alley. But the sirens really weren’t the most startling thing. He’d had to run from the cops more than once, and he’d been caught more than once. 

 

But the really jarring thing was the heavy footsteps pattering behind him, and getting closer, and just as he turned his head, Ian was sprinting past him, far out-ranking his stride size with his stupid long legs.

 

Mickey wanted desperately to ask why Ian was following him, but his lungs burned, and the beating certainly hadn’t helped. But he felt wild, and free, even in a place he was silenced. Struggling to keep up with the redhead was strangely sobering, and he sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, tasting blood and burning the more his muscles strained.

 

They were side-by-side seconds later, blood pumping and eyes bright, and Mickey heard laughter, turning his head to catch the wry grin on Ian’s face, and the noise falling from his lips. He stared for a second, before the urge to laugh overtook him too, and he did, lips pulling back into a wide smile.

 

They ran under the L train bridge, and Mickey looked up, felt the rumbling under his feet as they train passed overhead, shining fluorescent fading light on them in increments. And it was odd, passing under that same bridge, but on the wrong side of town, and Mickey slowed into a steady jog, before coming to a halt, doubling over as he caught his breath.

 

“You’re fucking crazy.” He wheezed when Ian finally stopped, and wandered his way back over to where Mickey was bent over.

 

Ian laughed again, head tipped back to look at the ink dark sky. The stars didn’t shine out here, not very bright anyway, but Ian might as well have been the whole galaxy. He flickered brighter. 

 

“You’re a masochist.” The redhead shot back between heavy pants. “Or a sadist. I can’t really tell.”

 

Mickey straightened up after a few seconds, coat dropping from his fingers onto the gravel and dirt, and he sucked in a breath. Every place that Ian had hit him was aching dully, but it was no worse than any other beating he’d taken, and when he looked over, he was mildly satisfied by the bloody nose Ian was nursing. 

 

“I didn’t break it, did I?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. 

 

Ian shook his head. “Nah. I’ve broken it twice before. This is nothing. Hurts like a motherfucker, though.” He mumbled, wiping dried flakes away with the palm of his hand, before eyeing Mickey speculatively. “Why? Were you hoping to break it?” he mused.

 

Mickey felt himself grin a little, before shrugging a shoulder. “Maybe. Broken noses keep my street cred up.” He joked, rubbing at his aching jaw. “Felt like you were trying to fucking break me though. Jesus.” he murmured, wincing slightly.

 

“I was a little.” Ian admitted, leaning up against one of the cement pillars holding the bridge up. 

 

“Prick.” Mickey mumbled, leaning his back up against the same pillar, head tipping back to look up at that same sky. 

 

He wanted to look at Ian. Wanted to study his freckles like the constellations he learned about that one year he actually semi-payed attention in a science class. It was probably in middle school, now that he thought about it, but he had remembered wondering why the fuck someone would waste their fucking time staring up at the sky to imagine shapes and shit that weren’t there. 

 

He could see it now. Wanting to study something so entrancing and out of reach, that only your imagination could fill in the gaps of what it all meant. 

 

“Asshole.” Ian mumbled back, and when Mickey turned his head to look at Ian, Ian was looking back, smile in place over those candy-red lips. 

 

Mickey stared for a second longer than he wanted to let himself, only stirring slightly when he caught movement in his peripheral, watching one of Ian’s hands come up. He stood frozen as warm fingers traced down one of his cheekbones, the one that wasn’t forming a bruise, heart beating at a million miles a minute. 

 

He’d deny liking the way he touched later. When he was alone, or if anyone asked, which they wouldn’t. Mickey was careful, and maybe the police could catch him once in a while, but he’d fucking chop off his left arm and let Angie Zhago fuck him with it before letting anyone find out about this.

 

But for now, he could get lost in it, feeling strangely vulnerable, like Ian’s touch could unravel all those walls he’d built up around himself. He shivered, blamed it on the cold air, but kept still, eyes fluttering closed for a second.

 

He heard Ian shift, gravel crunching under his foot, and knew it was coming. Felt Ian’s body heat before he even felt his lips, but when he did feel his lips, he leaned into it. His jaw still hurt like fuck, but it was nothing compared to the way Ian’s kiss made his skin burn with something that felt so good.

 

He opened his mouth, tasted blood that wasn’t his, but he didn’t care. He pulled back for a second, catching the look of confusion on Ian’s face, but he had to do it. He looked around quickly, around and behind both of them, just to make sure there weren’t people within eyesight. Even under the L bridge, in the abandoned lot, he felt exposed. 

 

The fingers tightened gently on his jaw, and tugged his face back so that his eyes were on Ian again, and he frowned.

 

“No one can see us.” Ian assured him. “Trust me.”

 

Mickey still felt antsy underneath it all, and he wanted to look around again, just to be sure. But Ian was closing in again, hand sliding back to grip the back of Mickey’s neck, while his other hand went to Mickey’s waist, pulling him close so they were mingled together like smoke.

 

And Mickey closed in again, opening his mouth when he felt the firm brush of warm lips, tasting copper and alcohol, but overall how he tasted, and how just the flick of Ian’s tongue had his stomach curling into knots, and his blood rushing south, groin stirring.

 

His kiss was almost better than the way he fucked, and that was saying something. Mickey didn’t do kissing. Found it unnecessary, because why waste time kissing when you could be fucking? But Ian had also been damn good in that area too, and Mickey was caught between which sensation he liked more.

 

He reached up and curled a hand around the back of Ian’s neck, the pad of his thumb brushing over shaved red hair, practically touching anywhere they could be touching. He was completely ready to just spend dusk until dawn just doing this, the cold air settling in his bones, but Ian keeping him warm overall. 

 

Ian suddenly laughed against his lips, and Mickey’s eyes blinked open, registering the feeling of vibration under his feet.

 

Any and all noise was suddenly muted as the train ran overhead, loud and screeching, and Mickey pulled back only to look up.

 

When it finally looped its way around and left them in quiet, Ian’s hand was curling around his wrist. 

 

“Grab your coat.” He murmured, nodding in the direction opposite of them. 

 

Mickey felt a little smug as he bent over to grab his coat, casting his gaze over his shoulder at the redhead when he finally straightened up. “Thought you weren’t interested?”

 

Ian flipped him the finger as he smiled. “You ruined my prior arrangement, and semi-beat the shit out of me.”

 

Mickey motioned down to himself, and raised an eyebrow. “You started it, jackass. Don’t dish out what you can’t take.”

 

“Please. I can handle more than you think, tough guy.”

 

“That right?” Mickey asked, catching up to his walking stride as they crossed under the overpass again. 

 

Ian got a far-off look in his eyes for a second, before he smiled. “Yeah, actually. Let’s get outta here.”

 

Mickey draped his coat over his shoulder, and followed in suit, their shoulders brushing every few steps as they wandered away.

  
  


**********************

 

The place Ian had suggested they go to wasn’t exactly what Mickey had been imagining. 

 

When the redhead had rattled off the address to the cab driver, Mickey thought he’d heard incorrectly. It was up on the upper north side, and when the yellow car had stopped in front of the building they were supposedly going to fuck in, Mickey’s jaw, somewhat swollen on one side, dropped a couple inches. 

 

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” He mumbled, wrinkling his nose up as Ian unlocked the door.

 

“It’s not my place.” Ian interjected. “Some friends that make a few trips down to the club occasionally. They’re out of town, but I’ve got a key. Want me to water their plants, or some shit.” He murmured, pushing the heavyset door open. 

 

When the door opened, part of Mickey thought they were stepping outside again, cause the whole back wall was paneled with floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooking the city of Chicago from a level higher up than Mickey was used to.

 

The furniture was immaculate and well-taken care of, meaning that there weren’t cigarette burns, half-eaten sandwiches, or crushed up cans shoved in between and on the cushions. The walls were painted in soothing dark tones, and everything that wasn’t hardwood was covered in sheer, groomed carpet. 

 

He crossed his arms over his chest, and wrinkled his nose again, listening to the door shut behind him. “They make you suck their cocks for trade, or something?” Mickey asked, not bothering to slip out of his shoes as he wandered farther inside.

 

Ian was close behind him then, laughing quietly. “No. Believe it or not, they’re just friends. Friends don’t exactly take sexual favors from friends, unless it’s an agreed upon arrangement.”

 

“Whatever.” Mickey mumbled, eyes still trained on the view, until he felt his shirt being tugged up. 

 

His eyes shifted down, watched Ian’s fingers smooth the material of his shirt up until his chest was exposed. He lifted his arms up so Ian could tug it off all the way, and watched it land on the floor somewhere off to the side. 

 

Those same hands smoothed down his hips until they reached the front of his jeans, undoing the button, and pulling down on the zipper. Lips brushing down across the line of his shoulder, and in his peripheral vision, Mickey could see long strands of red, and Ian’s face ducked down into the crook of his neck from behind, but the thing that really caught him off guard were the fingers brushing over his half-hard cock a second later.

 

He sucked in a breath through his teeth, and looked down. Ian’s hand was buried in the front of his jeans, wrist working in linear movements as Ian started to jerk him off, tantalizingly slow.

 

“I could suck you off.” Ian offered over his shoulder, voice a little closer to his ear. “If you want.”

 

The offer had heat pooling down low in his stomach, and he was so tempted to accept that. Get Ian down on his knees, and be the one in control this time.

 

He shook his head anyway, and stepped out of Ian’s embrace, turning around to face him as he hooked both thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans, and pushed down until they were sliding off his legs to pool at his feet. He stepped out of them, and kicked them away, getting his boxers off too a moment later. 

 

“No.” He mumbled, backing up towards the bed a little. “Want you to do it the way we did it the other night.”

 

“Behind a dumpster?” Ian mused.

 

“No, smartass.” Mickey grimaced. “You on top. Just...c’mon. Humor me.”

 

Ian’s lips pulled into a grin, and took a few steps closer to Mickey, brushing a hand down on his forearm. “Anything for a frequent customer.”

 

Mickey raised an eyebrow. “I’m not frequent.”

 

Ian shrugged. “You will be.” 

 

Mickey opened his mouth to reply to that. Maybe to tell Ian to get fucked, or something, but a sinking suspicion in his stomach told him that Ian was right. Mickey had trouble letting go, and he had a feeling that if Ian let him, he’d be getting fucked left, right, and sideways by the redhead if he asked nicely.

 

Mickey flipped him the finger instead. “Don’t flatter yourself, asshole.”

 

Ian laughed, and tugged Mickey forwards by a hand on his hip to kiss him. He felt teeth as Ian playfully bit his bottom lip. “Yeah, yeah. Just get your ass on the bed.”

 

Mickey snorted, and turned around, one knee coming up to bear his weight on the mattress, before the other one came to join. Anybody else would probably ask if fucking in someone else’s bed was considered bad form, but Mickey kind of wanted to debauch the impeccably flawless place. 

 

It wasn’t like these rich assholes couldn’t afford a dry-cleaning bill, anyway.

 

He felt a hand on the back of his neck--not forceful--but just Ian guiding him down onto his knees, and he shivered, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. It was always odd not to be the one in control. Or not the one on top, because he rarely bottomed, even if it was the position he liked most. 

 

It was never smart to bottom in juvie, so he never did.

 

But to switch it up a little sent a shiver up his spine, pent up on adrenaline and anticipation. 

 

Behind him, Ian was stripping out of his clothes, which wasn’t a very long task since he wasn’t wearing very much to begin with. He only caught a glimpse of what he looked like when he turned his head over his shoulder momentarily, but the feeling of slicked fingers stretching him open had him dropping his head down, swallowing back a low groan.

 

It wasn’t slow or romantic in the slightest. That’s just now how Mickey did things, but it felt as close to intimate as he would allow. And even with the slight twinge of discomfort that came from being prepped, it was nothing compared to the feeling of Ian actually inside him.

 

And it came just seconds later, the sharp, sudden stretch of having to fit Ian’s size. 

 

The redhead went slow at first, pressing in with just the head at first, and Mickey bit down on his bottom lip, hard, nails and fingers digging into the sheets he was laying on.

 

“Jesus.” He grumbled. “Some warning would be nice.” He snapped, turning his head to blink at green eyes. His resolve weakened though, and truth be told, he didn’t mind it. He just wanted something to bitch about. Maybe to make up for the fact that he’d been practically gushing over the redhead for fuck knows why. 

 

Ian smiled a little, but his eyes were a bit unfocused, already sold on the way Mickey felt, still tight around him and adjusting. 

 

“Sorry, Mick.” He hummed lowly, keeping eye contact as he leaned in close to kiss Mickey’s shoulder. “I’ll make it good for you.” He said like it was a promise. 

 

He didn’t know if it was because Ian was in the business of making people feel good, or it was just his natural charisma, but Ian had the uncanny ability to make Mickey’s reason and sense dissolve into nothing, and his tension ease. Like it was easier to relax around him, and believe the things he said without question.

 

Mickey knew without question though that Ian would hold up to his word.

 

He pushed back against him a little, feeling Ian’s cock slide in a little farther, and he sucked in a breath, trying to get more of that. The perfect mingling of discomfort and pleasure that coexisted in the best way.

 

“Don’t treat me like I’m fucking breakable, then.” He murmured, eyes closing tight. “You gotta go harder.”

 

He got nothing for a second, and then without warning, Ian’s hips snapped forward, their skin hitting audibly as he bottomed out in one swoop.

 

“Ah-” Mickey made a choked noise, head dropping down, adjusting to the feeling of so much of him at once. 

 

He didn’t know how he could actually miss a feeling like this, when he’d only experienced it once before, but he did. 

 

Ian’s hands had a steel-tight grip on his waist, holding him close as he took deep, steady breaths. “Fuck.” The redhead sighed, giving slow, experimental rolls with his hips.

 

The movement pushed right up against his prostate, and Mickey let a muffled noise slip past, desperate for that feeling again. “C’mon, Ian.” He taunted, glancing back at him. “You weren’t afraid to bruise me earlier. You pussying out on me?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

 

He watched a smile cross Ian’s lips for the faintest of seconds, before Ian’s hand was on the back of his neck again, forcing his head back into a forwards position, so all Mickey could see above the pillows was the illuminated city of Chicago, and a laugh bubbled from Mickey’s lips. 

 

He was answered with another snap of Ian’s hips, hard and heavy, and just the perfect angle that it made his knees and elbows feel weak. “Yeah. Better.” He breathed, eyes squeezing shut. “God, keep that up.”

 

And Ian did. 

 

While holding Mickey’s waist, and pulling him back on his cock to meet each thrust, he sped up a little, fucking him slow and hard, and just the way Mickey needed. He wanted to feel it tomorrow, and see the proof of it wherever Ian’s fingertips touched. 

 

And even just the low, reserved moans let out sounded so fucking good, and sent a thrill through him every time. Knowing that he was enough for the moment to send Ian spiralling over the edge, and have the power to draw those sounds from him.

 

There skin made contact loudly, the noise filling his ears and settling around them at a steady tempo. And ebb and flow of Ian pushing him closer to the edge.   
  


And then Ian was pulling out suddenly, leaving Mickey panting, eyebrows drawing together in confusion. He went to look over his shoulder, but before he could, a hand secured itself around his waist, and rolled Mickey over so he was laying on his back, reeling from the sheer force of it.

 

“The fuck are you-”

 

“Am I doing?” Ian finished for him. He shrugged, and scooted between Mickey’s legs, hooking one of Mickey’s legs over his shoulder. “Changing up the angle.” He explained, pushing the longer strands of red hair out of his face. 

 

The blood on his face had dried, and some bruises were springing up in pale blues and pinks, and Mickey was sure he looked about the same. But Ian somehow looked good in this scope. He tended to look good in just about anything, Mickey found.

 

“Oh.” he murmured, shifting a little to get comfortable in the change of position. He wasn’t flexible by any means, but getting to watch Ian line himself up again, hand wrapped around himself, and push back inside, blissful expression crossing over his face, was a turn-on all on its own. 

 

Mickey groaned, and dug his nails into Ian’s biceps, just to have something to grip onto, glancing down between them to watch Ian fuck him with a controlled kind of vigor. “Jesus fuck.” he moaned.

 

He reached down between them to get a hand around himself, feeling precum leaking from the head and wetting his palm as he gave himself fast, tight strokes.

 

Ian’s pupils were blown wide, almost canceling out the green of his irises, and his mouth was slack, red bitten lips parted. 

 

“You close?” Ian asked, voice wavering and shaky, and rough around the edges. 

 

“Yeah, shut the fuck up, and keep fucking me.” He said, smiling wryly as he reached up, curling a hand around the back of his neck. 

 

Ian made the move to lean in, surging down to kiss him, open-mouthed and rough, their teeth clacking once or twice. He still tasted a bit like copper, but also sweet and sultry like the energy that followed him.

 

Like maybe he’d been sweet once.

 

Mickey opened his mouth, moaning against his lips as the slide of his tongue and the force of his movements, cock brushing right up along his prostate, had him keening and shuddering and losing most of the composure he usually liked to keep around him.

 

When he came, it was sudden, like it was ripped from him. It started with the burning in the pit of his stomach, a slow sweet simmer at first, before his skin felt hot. His toes curled and his knuckles went white with how hard he was holding onto the redhead, one hand still stroking himself like mad to finish.

 

Ian was still kissing him when he shot his load down his hand, and across his stomach in messy, translucent waves, and his eyes squeezed shut, jaw going completely slack.

 

And Ian was still going, pounding into him like the drive to finish was more important than the drive to go slow and careful.

 

Mickey had let go of himself then, chest heaving and panting as he laid in a sweaty mess, the room around him looking shaky while Ian fucked into him with a reckless abandon. And when he finally came, Mickey shuddered a little, feeling him shoot his release inside as he tucked small little noises against Mickey’s lips.

 

They hovered there for a few minutes, everything muffled, sweaty, and messy. And Mickey felt like he was floating. His brain was fried with exertion, but he was still riding the waves of what had just come over him, and even when Ian pulled out, he could still feel him.

 

The redhead collapsed next to him, shoulders touching, while they both caught their breath. Nothing but quiet, and city lights, and a post-orgasmic haze that neither quite knew how to come out of.

 

“Can’t believe-...” Mickey trailed off, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “Can’t believe you were gonna go home with a guy old enough to get retirement benefits.” He snorted, shooting Ian a wry smile.

 

Ian shrugged. “What can I say? Some of ‘em have surprisingly impressive stamina.”

 

“Ew.” Mickey wrinkled his nose. “Fuck. That’s disgusting.”

 

Ian made a derisive noise, and shook his head. “You’re something else.”

 

Mickey tasted that comment on his tongue for a while, mulling it around in his head. “I’m guessing that’s not a good thing?”

 

Ian shrugged, eyes flickering between Mickey’s for a second. “I really don’t know. Wasn’t meant as insult.” He hummed, glancing down at Mickey’s stomach, and then his own. “You got us messy.”

 

Mickey raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? You shot your load up my ass, no condom. I get to deal with it leaking out, and shit.”

 

The comment brought a grin to Ian’s lips, and he reached over, playfully grabbing Mickey’s oversensitive cock. “Didn’t hear you complain during.”

 

Mickey slapped his hand away, and rolled his eyes. “You’re fucking weird, man.”

 

Ian shrugged again, an odd look crossing his face. “I guess I am now.”

 

Mickey raised an eyebrow, but couldn’t think of much in the form of answer to that. “You work at a queer bar called The White Swallow, I think that’s long past the line of weird.”

 

“Only on Tuesdays and Thursdays.” Ian countered. “I work Mondays and Fridays at The Fairy Tale.”

 

“Oh, great. Cause that’s fucking better.” Mickey rolled his eyes, stooping down to grab a cigarette from the back pocket of his jeans. “Aren’t weekends supposed to be the busiest for those kinds of establishments?” He asked, lighting up.

 

The small flame was just about the only source of light inside, before it was gone.

 

“You’re not allowed to smoke in here, you know.” Ian murmured, scrubbing a hand though his hair, the longer strands near the top still sticky with product and sweat. “And nah. You’d be surprised how many guys have plans with their families on the weekend. They save the gay strip scene for the weeknights.” he mused.

 

“Fuck off, I just got ass fucked on their sheets. And the yuppity bitches aren’t even home.” He mumbled, blowing a steady stream of smoke from his nostrils. “And great. What a wholesome thought. Slowly destroying one marriage at a time.”

 

He caught the smile on Ian’s lips, and watched a freckled hand reach up to grab the cigarette from Mickey’s fingers, taking a few puffs, and blowing a few rings. “Not destroying the marriage if the wives never find out, and the guys get frequent orgasms. Might make the marriages last longer, honestly.” He mused.

 

“Thought you guys weren’t in the business of prostitution.”

 

“We’re not.” Ian murmured, sighing out the smoke from his lungs. “But it’s not unheard of for dancers to go home with whoever slips them the biggest bills.”

 

“So.” Mickey blinked. “Prostitution.”

 

Ian laughed again, and handed the cigarette back. “I take it you don’t do sleepovers?”

 

Mickey plucked the cigarette back, and held it between his teeth as he slid off the bed, stooping down to grab his jeans and boxers. “Nope. I don’t.” He said, suddenly reminded of the fact that, yeah. He was getting a little too comfortable. 

 

He slid into his clothes, eyes flickering over to Ian once or twice every couple of minutes. The redhead was propped up on his elbows, strands of hair hanging in his eyes, and his gaze was trained somewhere far off in the apartment. If this could even be called an apartment. More like a fucking vacation house.

 

“How do I get home from here?” He asked, tugging his jacket on.

 

Green eyes flickered over to meet his, and Ian drummed his fingers along his hips, before scrambling to stand up, coming in close to stand in front of Mickey.

 

“You gonna come see me again?”

 

Mickey blinked, eyebrows drawing together a little. “I dunno, man. The fuck do you care?”

 

Ian’s eyes switched between Mickey’s blue ones, before he shrugged. And for a moment, Mickey was sure that that’d be that, and they could both leave in their separate directions. Now that the whole itch to get laid was out of his system. 

 

But Ian stayed where he was, and reached up to push a hand through Mickey’s hair, smoothing the longer strands down. “You’re a very backwards person.”

 

“Well, yeah. I’m a lot of things I shouldn’t be.” He mumbled, ducking out of his touch, and buttoned his jacket up as he wandered towards the door, Ian close behind. “I take it up the ass. Sell drugs. Briefly had a job as a pimp. Not upstanding citizen material.” He snorted, slipping into his shoes, before turning to glance up at Ian. “I dunno. I might see you around.”

 

“A pimp, huh?” Ian grinned, arms folding across his bare chest as he leaned against the wall, completely fucking naked still. “And c’mon. Nothing wrong with taking it up the ass. You seem to like it, anyway.”

 

“Fuck off.” Mickey snorted, shoving at one of Ian’s shoulders weakly. “Your nose is looking fucking horrendous, by the way. Might wanna have it checked.”

 

Ian grinned, body jostling a little when Mickey pushed him, but he didn’t go very far aside from that. “I’ve got a friend who can take a look at it. Kind of impressive though, the work I did on your jaw.” He teased, reaching up to touch him.

 

Mickey ducked away from the touch, and shook his head. “Right. As lovely and touching as this was, I’ve gotta go.”

 

Ian nodded, but didn’t say anything, eyes and expression carefully blank as he eyed Mickey.

 

Mickey felt inclined to stay in his spot, like Ian had some gravitational pull that Mickey felt inclined to be drawn to. More than that, he already wanted that touch again, before the self-disgust and pity started to set in. 

 

He leaned forward on the balls of his feet a little before unlatching the door, and tugging it open, stepping out into the hallway.

 

He whirled around, just in time to catch Ian clasping onto the door with one hand. “That eyeliner looks fucking ridiculous, by the way. My sister would probably wanna kick your ass if she saw that shit, so… Work on your technique, or something.” He murmured offhandedly, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

 

Ian was silent for a second, before a smile pulled at his lips. “Great. I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

Mickey stood in place, waiting for Ian to shut the door, or maybe Ian was waiting for Mickey to walk away. Either way, they were both frozen in place, Ian’s dick still hanging limp between his legs, out in the open for anyone to see if they decided to step out of their apartments. 

 

“I had a nice time.” Ian finally said. “Come find me again if you need to get off real quick. Can’t promise I’ll always be around, but if you catch me early…” he trailed off, shrugging his shoulders at the suggestion.

 

Mickey blinked, and licked his lips before nodding. “Yeah. Great… Thanks, I guess.” He mumbled, eyebrows drawing together quizzically.

 

Neither one of them moved still, and Mickey sucked in a careful breath, eyes flickering around the dimly lit hallway for a moment, before he leaned in really quick, placing a quick kiss to Ian’s lips. 

 

“Tell anyone about me, and I’ll cut your fucking tongue out.” He mumbled when he pulled away, just for good measure. And maybe he needed to say something to overshadow the fact that he’d been voluntarily intimate. 

 

He made himself sick sometimes.

 

Ian grinned again, head cocking to the side. “You like my tongue, though.”

 

Mickey turned on his heel and started walking, flipping Ian the finger over his shoulder. “See you ‘round, Carrot Top.”

 

Distantly Mickey heard the door close, but if Ian had said anything else beforehand, Mickey hadn’t heard it. 

 

He was practically in a sprint when he finally got out of the ridiculously overpriced apartment complex, and felt he could finally breathe only when he reached the L station.

 

There was a junkie asleep on one of the benches, hairy ass crack hanging out for everyone to see. There was a woman in business clothes and a messy blonde ponytail sprinting between broken ticket booths. A few crushed hypodermic needles laid empty on the tracks.

 

North or South side, the L stations always transcended both, and made him feel a little closer to the white-trash, piece of shit he was. It was like a splash of cold water to rouse someone from a blackout. 

 

And seriously, what the fuck was wrong with him?

 

His ass was sore. His lips tasted like Ian. His skin felt tainted by ian and everywhere he’d touched or kissed. His mess was still drying on the back of Mickey’s thighs. He even fucking smelled like him now, which he only realized fifteen minutes later, sat on the L train, nose buried in the sleeve of his coat.

 

He felt like shame, like hate, like everything ugly.

 

But he felt fucking entranced, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr: http://ultra-freshalpacadreamland.tumblr.com/   
> Express complaints, suggest things, whatever the fuck you want.


End file.
